Blood–Red
by Tierfal
Summary: L Lawliet is a rising opera star with a transcendent voice. Light Yagami is the theater's handsome young sponsor. And who can tell whether the ghost lurking in the shadows is an angel or a monster? Light/L
1. Sea–Blue

_Hi, it's Tierfal and Eltea, back at it again! This time, the name of the game is Phantom of the Opera crossover, written over the course of about three days for RichelleShalark's birthday._

Oh, and... we actually love Misa. She's just so easy to make fun of that refraining would mean missing lots of humor opportunities.  


* * *

"Goodbye…" L murmured. "And thank you…"

There was no answer. As usual, the voice had disappeared, leaving him alone in his corner of the little room he shared with Mello and Near, curled up on his cot. Sighing softly, he allowed himself a moment to speculate on what the mysterious voice wanted with him, why it continued to return and teach him evening after evening.

It wasn't a very long moment.

"L!" Mello burst through the door, Near shuffling after him. "Rehearsal in five minutes! You'd better hurry up or Wammy's gonna blow his stack!"

L unfolded to his feet, sliding off of the bed to join Near by the door - for Mello, of course, was already halfway up the stairs, calling plaintive "Come _onnnn_"s over his shoulder as he went.

Smiling a little indulgently, L trailed Mello and Near to the backstage area, where Monsieur Wammy was waiting, his bright eyes accustomed to and missing none of the chaos and commotion of the preparation for rehearsal.

"There you are," he remarked of the three slightly disheveled boys who scampered towards their places.

"Now remember!" Monsieur Ruvie was calling to all of the actors, singers, and dancers as they scrambled around getting ready to begin. "Our new sponsor is coming today, so it's our job to impress him! Don't forget, he's the one making it possible for this to happen!"

Monsieur Wammy smiled at his charges.

"I'm sure all of you will work very hard. Now, positions for the dance at the end of Act Five. All set? Ready, one, two three…"

"NO!" a voice suddenly shrilled. "I _refuse_ to perform in that white monstrosity! I said I wanted a _pink_ dress!"

"Misa…!" Monsieur Ruvie was pleading.

"It's not fair!" the blonde girl wept. "First I receive strange threats and suggestions that the theater is haunted, then I can't even have a pink dress? That's it! I _quit!_" She stomped her foot and began stalking towards the exit.

"No! Misa, please!" Monsieur Ruvie cried, trailing after her. "We need you! You are tonight's star! You—" But with a final toss of her head, the diva was gone. The disgruntled manager hung his head.

"What are we supposed to do now?" he groaned. "Without our star, tonight's show will be ruined!"

Mello cleared his throat extremely loudly.

Monsieur Ruvie sighed. "Mello," he said with what seemed to be his last tenuous threads of patience, "as much of a drama queen as you are, the song is _quite_ out of your rang—"

"Not _me_," Mello scoffed. "_L_."

And then, of course, somehow both suddenly and utterly predictably, everyone was looking at him. L felt his face go warm.

"_L_?" Monsieur Ruvie demanded skeptically.

"He certainly has the voice," Near murmured.

"It's true," Monsieur Wammy agreed. "He didn't a few years ago, but he's been studying - someone brilliant has been giving him lessons."

"Who?" Monsieur Ruvie wanted to know. L shrugged and blushed.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly, fidgeting nervously. "I just hear a voice." He winced slightly, realizing how ridiculous that sounded.

"Let him sing something," Monsieur Wammy interrupted, coming to his rescue. "Trust me; you won't be disappointed."

Monsieur Ruvie nodded his grudging approval, and L licked his lips, glancing at the circle of performers in various states of preparedness who had gathered to watch. He felt surrounded.

Then again, given that performing in front of a _live audience_ on _opening night_ would probably be a thousand times more difficult, perhaps he would be best advised to swallow his irrational fears now.

He drew in a deep breath, swallowed, and began, softly and slightly unsteadily at first, but gaining strength and confidence as the orchestra rose in his head, as the cheers roared in his ears, as the imaginary adulation buoyed him - as it always did - "_Think of me… Think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye… Remember me once in a while; please promise me you'll try_…"

- - - - -

Light Yagami adjusted his cravat more because he needed something to do with his hands than because he thought it wasn't impeccably arranged already. Spotless, white, and perfectly in vogue, just like his business prospects, his life, the path towards a shining future…

Smiling graciously, he passed his ticket to the doorman and handed off his coat, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair. That, too, was perfect; he'd seen to it.

Why was he so unsettled?

Everything was in place, and he knew it was. The show would be a roaring success, everyone would have a lovely time, and everything would be just as he'd planned.

Light put no stock in superstitions. He shook himself inwardly and strolled along the route to his seat in the uppermost booth, stopping to greet this dignitary and that businessman as he went. He kissed wives' hands and complimented pocket watches and flashed his most genial smile until at last he reached the plush, velvet chair that had long since been reserved for him. Gratefully he settled in it, wanting, for some reason, to clench his fingers around the armrests.

What _was_ wrong with him tonight?

As the lights dimmed, though, and the chatter in the room began to die down, he felt excited. He loved the moment when the curtain rose and the show started, when everyone in the room was suddenly transported to another world. He lived for it.

The orchestra began, quietly at first and then more loudly, the first strains of the overture, and Light sat up a little bit more. The music swelled, building, and then finally the deep, rich red curtains began parted, revealing a stage alive with color and motion…

Light realized he'd been holding his breath and exhaled slowly, chiding himself with a bit of amused chagrin. Next thing he knew, he'd be gasping every time a dancer executed a particularly graceful move, and once he'd started down that slope, who was to say… that…

In the fading final notes of the overture, the dancers in their glinting, glimmering costumes twirled out of the way, opening the stage for a solitary, slender young man dressed resplendently in white and silver, the lights playing gleefully on thick, burnished black hair brushed to fall like silk almost to its owner's narrow shoulders. Something was remarkably familiar—

The boy looked up, offering the audience a tentative smile, and Light saw wide gray eyes peeking out from behind the shining black bangs.

It couldn't be.

His mind drifted back, back to a time years ago when his family had spent the summer at the seashore… and one day, he'd gone down to the beach to find a thin black-haired boy playing in the sand, a boy who'd introduced himself with a single letter. Over the course of the summer, the two of them had become close friends (and maybe a little more - Light, at least, recalled harboring the soft, tender, innocent infatuation of a child for his quiet companion), but at the end of the summer, they'd parted ways, and he hadn't seen his mysterious friend since.

Surely that strange, scruffy, wild-eyed little boy couldn't be the same graceful, enchanting beauty that stood before him now?

Then L - for it couldn't be any other, could it? That hair, those eyes, the curve of that cheek and the delicate point of that chin; the long, elegant fingers and the slightly hesitant stance; those _couldn't_ belong to anyone else - obeyed the understated urgings of the orchestra and began, softly and sweetly and so beautifully that Light's heart twisted itself almost to pieces, to sing.

There had been a few moments in Light Yagami's life that he'd wished he could freeze and capture, to take into his hands, to hold tightly to his chest and own forever. One had been the last evening by the sea, with the foamy waves nibbling, weary with the day's crashings, at their bare toes, with the sun subsiding beyond the distant horizon, with the heartbreaking grandeur of the drastically colored clouds. The rosy glow of it on L's face, the way he let his eyes slide shut and tilted his head back just slightly, just so, bathing in the cooling air and the quiet companionship.

In the moment before Light fell asleep every night afterwards, that was the picture he conjured in his mind.

And now. This moment. With L smiling shyly, with a voice like an angel's rising from the slight form perched on the center of the stage - Light wanted to keep this one as long as he lived.

He was barely aware of how long the performance lasted - forgot to think about the time passing. It didn't matter. He'd collected enough moments to stretch out into an eternity of imagination, to keep him warm every night for the rest of his life.

At last, the curtain closed, and he leapt to his feet and applauded with the rest of the audience. His elation flickered slightly as he worried that L would disappear again, then leapt up into his chest as he remembered that he was now connected to this theater. And L was connected to this theater. So they were connected to each other, and they would be able to see each other again.

"Bravo!" he shouted, his voice lost amongst a sea of its brothers and the rustling ocean of hands meeting hands. It didn't matter. All of a sudden, his life didn't feel so dismal anymore.

He'd found L.


	2. Smoke–Silver

As L sidled off of the stage, overwhelmed by the heady mixture of joy and bewilderment and ecstatic achievement and insanity and wildness and _disbelief_ that had kindly waited until he'd finished performing to leap upon him, he caught sight of one familiar figure, which was twirling with a pale finger at a section of paler hair.

Before he had time to wonder after the whereabouts of the other half of the pair, Mello had appeared from the crush of people and was wrapping him in an absolutely rib-crushing hug.

Before L could wonder about that, Mello was stepping hastily backwards, blushing furiously. "You were amazing!" he cried, fanning himself with one hand. "Jesus, it's hot in here!"

"Or maybe it's just you," Near remarked, apparently also possessed of the appearing-from-nowhere talent recently exhibited by his companion. He turned to L, smiling. "You really were wonderful, though," he declared, holding out a bouquet of lollipops.

L was utterly speechless for a long moment.

At last, after many congratulations, a little more bewilderment, and a solemn promise to his two friends that the three of them would go out and celebrate at the sweetshop the next morning, he allowed Monsieur Wammy to remove him from the crowd and lead him to an empty dressing room.

"You've done well," his instructor told him gently. "Have a rest and get your breath back. All of these flowers have been sent for you from members of the audience."

L nodded, a little overwhelmed, and Monsieur Wammy offered him a kind smile before disappearing and closing the door behind him. L went and sat down in the chair before the dresser-desk, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. It was then that he noticed, on the dark wood before him, a single black rose adorned with a blood-red ribbon.

His heart was pounding again, but not in that delicate, airy way it had when the audience had surged to its feet, a great collective roar breaking from countless throats. This time, it was heavy - almost leaden - and he couldn't breathe properly around it.

He reached out a trembling hand, clasped the dark green stem between two fingers, and brought it to him.

_You've done well,_ it seemed to whisper. _You've done exactly as I taught you._

L smiled. His tutor approved. This single flower outweighed all of the burgeoning, overflowing bouquets sprawling on the dressing tables, because it meant that his _tutor approved_.

For a moment, something like fear fluttered in his heart, but he pushed it away before pausing to consider it. It was strange. He was grateful to the voice that taught him, trusted it, and at the same time… it was just a bit frightening. Or perhaps he was just nervous at having the attention of such a genius.

Lifting his eyes, he considered himself in the mirror. He didn't _look_ scared. He looked a little pale, certainly, and wide-eyed, but his face appeared calm. Almost glazed, even. He was probably tired. He was imagining things. Hearing things. The click of a handle, the whisper of the door across the carpet.

A voice, but not the one of his teacher - a soft, almost-familiar one.

"L," the voice breathed. "It is you."

_It couldn't be, _he heard his mind whisper.

He turned despite it, fast enough that his laboriously-brushed hair swirled in his eyes, half-obscuring the unbelievable reality in the doorway.

"Light…" he heard himself whisper.

His hands weighed tons and his fingers tingled like he'd dipped them in cold water; he couldn't lift them to move his hair out of the way, and Light stood, tall, thin frame decked in fine fabrics from head to toe, just feet away - somehow, impossibly, more beautiful even than he'd been in the summer, with the tiny grains of salt sticking to curving lips as he smiled, with the sun picking out the honeyed highlights in his hair—

"What are you doing here?" L heard himself ask numbly.

"I'm your new sponsor," Light explained gently. "Vis-Compte Yagami. I don't think I ever told you my last name that summer. And I didn't mention my family because - because I didn't want it to get in the way. I…" his voice grew quiet. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"Neither did I," L murmured.

"I looked for you the next summer," Light said. "But you weren't there."

"By the next summer," L told him quietly, "I was an orphan, and I was sent here because Monsieur Wammy - the ballet master - was a family friend. He and the dancers have been the only family I've known since then."

"You were beautiful tonight," Light broke in. "Your voice, I mean. Your singing was beautiful. But you were beautiful, too."

_Beautiful_. It was a word for people like Light. A word for people who could follow the graceful curve of it, the lilt of it off of a practiced tongue, who could say it in sitting rooms, at lavish parties, on sunlit beaches where the encroaching night swallowed everything but the stars…

Somehow, L mustered a smile. The blush came more easily. "Thank you," he said, "Monsieur."

"Please," Light said. Two quick steps on two polished, fashionable shoes. "Call me Light."

"All - all right," L stammered, blushing a bit more.

"Will you go out to dinner with me?" Light asked gently.

"Of course!" L replied happily. Then his face fell. "I mean - I can't. I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to go out at night."

"I won't tell," Light promised with a wink. "Just give me five minutes to get my carriage ready, then meet me at the back door. All right?"

L smiled shyly and nodded, trying to ignore his misgivings. Light returned the smile and disappeared, leaving L to search his room for a warm cloak. Just as he was about to touch the doorknob, though, all the lamps went out abruptly in a gust of wind, leaving him in darkness but for the incandescent moonlight filtering through the window.

L hesitated, turning slowly, looking around him. Nothing had changed, but for the lamps' suddenly being extinguished - had he expected something to?

Moonlight glinted, coolly and enticingly, off of the tall, ornate, gilt-framed mirror standing proudly amongst the flowers. L saw himself in it, the milky moonlight exaggerating the pallor of his complexion. Without ever really understanding why, he took a step towards it, and then another.

Curiously he touched a thumb to his lips - and then a fingertip of the other hand to the mirror's surface. It didn't ripple or bend; nothing moved at all but for the faintest remnants of candle smoke that drifted through the air behind him. The slightest blur of his fingerprint clung to the glass. The shadows shifted behind him, churning as the moonlight swelled and subsided at the mercy of the clouds passing over its face.

Then the shadows coalesced into a solid being, a being who moved up behind L Lawliet and met his eyes in the mirror.

L gasped and spun around, but there was nobody behind him. Looking back, he saw that the shadowy creature was now standing where his own face should be - as if L was looking at a strange and distorted reflection of himself. For the face he saw was a little like his - not so soft, perhaps, the hair a little shorter and a little choppier, the smile more of a smirk than the kind that L usually found on his lips. And the eyes…

The eyes looking back into his were red, deep blood-red, the color of fire and fruit preserves and the ribbon on the black rose - bright and strangely lovely and penetrating enough to bore into every part of L's being. As though they understood him; as though they already knew everything about him; as though they owned him.

"It's you," he breathed.

The figure smiled - smirked - a little wider, raised a hand, and beckoned.

The mirror shuddered gently once, as if wracked with a sudden chill, and then the glass slid slowly downward.

L didn't watch it disappear into the bottom of the frame. He saw only the dark, dark, red-eyed man that remained even as it slid away. He saw the corners of the startlingly exquisite eyes crinkle with another smile, and he saw the man raise a pale, steady hand to him and sweep the other arm wide to indicate the narrow stone staircase descending behind and beyond.

And L saw his own hand rise to accept his tutor's.


	3. Maze–Gray

_Authors'__ Note: Hello, lovelies! Sorry for the note-age, but a couple things have come up repeatedly in reviews, so I, the terrifying Tierfal, will be addressing some of that stuff. :)_

_(a) This fic was written as a birthday present, so it__'s not exactly the next _Scarlet Letter_, but we had a lot of fun; (b) said birthday snuck up on us, meaning we ended up writing the whole 16,800 words within the space of about two and a half days, much of it at ungodly hours of the night; (c) Yes, there are two of us - hi, there!; and (d) Eltea read the novel in the original French, but the fic mostly follows teh plot of the movie because Tierfal vaguely remembers what it is. :P_

_Thanks to all you wonderful readers and reviewers, and enjoy! :D_

* * *

"L?" Light was confused. Why was the door to L's dressing room locked? He tried again, rattling the handle. "L, are you there? Is something wrong?"

There was no answer.

- - - - -

It was cold in the passageway, the chilly, moist air of underground clinging to L and making him shiver slightly. There were lights on the walls, soft and golden, and he felt as though he was either in a trance or a tomb. His mysterious companion continued to lead him on with a cool, spidery hand, and L followed quietly, obediently, too dazed and overwhelmed to resist, as they plunged deeper and deeper underground.

Before long - or after an eternity - L detected the unmistakable lapping of water. They turned another corner, his tutor's hand cool and smooth around his, just tight enough to be firm, and the stone passageway opened into a stone room - a room that consisted of a slippery quay and a canal of dark water that rippled softly through twisting channels extending farther than L could see.

His tutor gave him a moment to take it in, the flickering white candles on the walls making his eyes glimmer with something like fond amusement, and then led the way to the black, varnished boat that bobbed placidly in the impregnable water of the canal.

L let his tutor help him in, the boat rocking slightly as he settled uncertainly. When his tutor deftly joined him, the boat didn't seem to move at all.

His tutor retrieved a long pole from the belly of the boat, touched it to the edge of the quay, and pushed off. Water murmured against stone walls, candelabras' burdens sputtered softly, and the boat glided forward.

Eyes wide, L looked around, trying to take everything in. The dark water. The damp walls. The soft glow of the candles. He could feel eyes on him, beautiful crimson eyes that were likely dancing with amusement, and he pressed his own shut, wondering if he was dreaming. It certainly felt unreal enough.

When he looked again, they were passing under an iron portcullis and into a cavern filled with old furniture, rich fabrics, and more candles than L had ever seen in his life. With a final push of the pole, the boat slipped up against the shore, and L's mysterious guide stepped out and offered him a hand.

Tentatively, L took it.

His tutor drew L gently up the pebbly beach, beyond which lay what was clearly a room despite the way it opened upon the water. A delicate hand roved over the objects and ornaments affectionately, the other tugging L gently along the pathway that wended between sumptuous hangings, more wrought-iron candelabras, and sheaf upon sheaf of parchment blanketed in musical arrangements and marginal notes in a neat, meticulous penmanship. His tutor paused before the grand organ, a long finger grazing a key at random. One of the countless compositions slouched against the intricate gold filigree of the music stand. L's tutor turned to him, another small smile lighting the marvelous eyes.

"I write for you," he whispered. The hand that had rested on the organ sought L's face, cool fingertips skimming his jaw. "I don't think I have had the chance to tell you… You were extraordinary tonight. You were perfect."

L wanted to thank him, but found that his throat was stuck with amazement and settled for nodding gratefully, eyes wide. His tutor laughed softly, a low, secretive sound.

"My little performer…" he murmured, fingers moving to slide down L's throat, over his voice box. "My angel. You look even more lovely now than you did on the stage, and I am the only one who gets to see you like this." He smiled softly at L's bewilderment. "So lovely…"

L tried to swallow, but his mouth was desperately dry. Trying to wet it felt like drinking a desert.

His tutor touched his hair, which was still remarkably cooperative even now. "Though I'd hardly complain about your usual style," came the murmured comment, "this is truly stunning. It frames you, you see - and the contrast is even more pronounced because it is so dark…" He smoothed a few strands back and slid his fingers down L's cheek, following it down his neck again. "…and you are so pale." He smiled, gently and indulgently but with a hint of deep-seated remorse. "Are you afraid of me, my angel?"

L cleared his throat. "No," he whispered, wondering where his voice had gone to desert him now, wondering what the question really meant - wondering whether his answer was a lie.

His tutor only smiled.

Nervously, L smiled back.

"You're lying," his tutor murmured, lifting a finger to run across L's lips. "You are frightened. Don't be, my angel. Do you think I would hurt you?"

"I - no," L stammered. He hoped not.

"Good," the scarlet-eyed creature said softly. He was using his fingernail now, running it lightly, gently, almost imperceptibly back and forth along L's lower lip, then around, tracing the outline of his mouth.

L tried for an agreeable smile. The restless fingertip followed his lead, then swooped over a cheekbone and down along his jaw to settle below his chin, nudging it upwards.

"I would never hurt you," his tutor whispered.

L tried to nod without seeming as though he was avoiding the hand beneath his chin. His tutor leaned forward and touched cool lips to his forehead, their pressure light and brief like the batting of a butterfly's wings. It was… sweet, and tender, and momentary, and when the moment passed, L met endless ruby-red eyes once more. Again they softened as they searched his face. Two enterprising hands rose this time, each sliding into his hair to trace an ear.

"We'll sing together, my angel," L's tutor told him, the light of pure inspiration in those drastic eyes. "We'll show the world what that can mean."

L nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak. There was something frightening about his strange teacher, something dark and dangerous and deadly, but there was also something irresistible about him, a beautiful, hypnotizing allure. L found himself becoming lost in those unnatural eyes. Their owner smiled.

"Beautiful," he murmured, circling slowly to stand behind L, running a hand down and around his protégé's neck as he did so. "No wonder they love you. But you're mine, my lovely one; all mine."

Warm breath coiled in the shell of L's ear as his tutor leaned in, sliding his free hand down L's shoulder, down his arm, around his waist, pulling him gently closer until L found himself flush against his teacher's chest. The deft fingers, fingers that might make an organ sing like the voice had coaxed him to do, slid across his abdomen, the silk of his costume docile beneath them, the beading shifting obediently.

Soft lips replaced the soft breaths. "Perhaps I'll share you sometimes," the voice whispered, the voice that had unearthed such power and inspiration in him that he couldn't tell whose success it was. He felt the lips pressed gently against his neck curve as his tutor smiled. "And then again," he chuckled softly, "perhaps not."

L wasn't sure whether to be thrilled or terrified. An uneasy combination of both rose cold and fluttering in his chest.

Slowly, the lips at his neck began to lay a trail of small, soft kisses. L froze, bewildered, and then started slightly, blood rushing to his face, as the next kiss became more forceful. He shouldn't like this; he should be disgusted by this - so why was he burning with some kind of strange, horrified fascination that bordered on anticipation?

Heat spread from the point of impact, and L thought wildly that surely there would be evidence, a rash remaining where the warmth had been, some telltale sign of his uncertain enjoyment of this pleasure that he _knew_ was wrong—

His head spun; fragrant smoke drifted into his eyes, and he blinked, trying to shake it away, his tutor's fingers tracing a snaking pathway up his temple, twisting gently in his hair, tilting his head for better access to his neck. L could feel his pulse beating against the insistent mouth pressed to his skin; his eyelids were unreasonably heavy, his head desperately light…

His last conscious sensation was that of being very warm and very cold at the same time.


	4. Monster–Green

_Authors__' Note: Sorry for the slight delay; we were busy. XD Enjoy! :)_

* * *

When L finally woke, it was to a numb heaviness that wrapped him like a blanket. His eyelids felt sticky and weak, and, as they finally fluttered open, golden lights swam in the darkness before his eyes.

He was lying on a bed, he realized momentarily - a circular bed with soft golden pillows, rich crimson sheets, and a net of black gauze twinkling with clear beads that gave the impression of the night sky. He was lying on a bed, soft strains of a distant music were echoing in his ears, and hazy memories were tugging gently at the edges of his mind.

He closed his eyes, and the music seemed to swell in response, transcendent, resplendent, resounding. He opened them again, looked for a long moment at the glinting beads suspended in the canopy above, and rolled over, sliding the drapes aside to climb carefully free.

The music enticed him - as always. It was his weakness, music was. His blind spot.

Such beautiful music…

His tutor was bent over the grand organ, long (_cool_ _soft sweet_) fingers whirling over the keys, the instrument's voice soaring in tones that sent chill after intoxicating chill chasing down L's spine. The fingers played effortlessly and endlessly, smoothly, with an almost unnatural grace. Into the organ their owner poured a wealth of memory, of emotion, a twisted tale of life and death and splendor and ignominy, a trick mirror held before the world. The story unfolded note by note, infused with a manic genius that rooted L to the place his feet had fallen.

He wanted to touch this being. He did. He wanted desperately to confirm the reality of this strange, strange, splendorous creature, wanted to feel the cool skin grazing his again, wanted to know the source of the impossible music. He wanted…

And then he was. A flowing velvet cloak yielded its palatial expanses to his curious fingertips, and he ran a hand slowly along his tutor's shoulder, unsure how he'd come to be here, knowing only why.

The organ quieted and stopped, but before L had time to lament, the melody had been taken up by his tutor's voice, a soft humming that wound its way hypnotically around his form in synchronism with his tutor's arms. Cool fingers settled on his waist, and L closed his eyes, a quiet bliss stealing warmly through his veins as the pair began to rock gently to the music. Somehow, the beautiful voice managed to twist itself into a whisper without breaking the melody.

"Are you happy here, my angel?" a mouth breathed into L's ear as the fingers that weren't tracing the small of his back rose to smooth down his hair.

"Yes," he whispered. It was the only answer - the only word - that made sense. The only one in the world.

"Stay with me." The breath curled around him, drawing him closer, cool fingers dancing like snowflakes across his cheek. "Stay forever."

_Yes,_ L heard a part of him sigh, settling into the velvet-coated, music-drenched, paradoxically cool floating-candle warmth of this strange and entrancing world. _I'll stay. I'll stay as long as you let me…_

The words he heard himself utter were different. "Tonight… the show… I promised…"

"No one will mind, my angel. I've made you. Can't I keep my masterpiece from them just a little longer?"

Warm voice; cool fingers; sweet, sweet music.

"I promised Light…"

The world shattered into stark streaks of color and dank air as his tutor threw L to the ground, and he tumbled onto carpet that mingled with glass beads and fine-grained sand.

"You promised _nobody!_" his tutor shouted, red eyes flashing. L shrank back, bewildered and frightened, and the angry menace advanced on him.

"You are _mine!_" it raged. "You belong to me! Your promises are mine!" L cowered, and his captor crouched down and leaned in close to his face, lips grazing his cheek as fingers settled at his throat.

"You are mine," the voice repeated softly. The fingers moved to clutch his shoulder, and the lips slid down to his neck.

"Mine," they murmured again, sucking greedily at the skin of L's throat.

L heard himself breathing, heard his heart beating steadily, and stared disbelievingly at the dark creature twined around him, the velvet cloak enclosing them, wrapping them in a solidarity that frightened him more than he could reach to grasp.

His tutor drew back, taking possession of L's eyes, holding them with his. He smiled.

"My angel."

The soft, cool fingertips slid over the tender skin of L's neck.

"_Mine_."

"I - I'm sorry," L stammered. They were the only words he could find. Part of him knew that he shouldn't be apologizing when he'd done nothing wrong, the rest urged him to do anything necessary to pacify this strange, possessive creature wrapped around him.

Fingertips skimmed his cheek, tracing the dark circles beneath his eyes, moving along his cheekbone to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

"I forgive you, my angel," the voice murmured softly, crimson eyes moving to stare deeply into his own. L looked back, transfixed and terrified. His tutor's expression became sorrowful.

"But yes, it is time to return you… those idiots will be wondering where you are. You will sing tonight. But I will be waiting here…" Lips curved into a smile, and L wasn't sure whether the fluttering in his heart was gratitude or fear.

He wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer to the question that escaped his lips: "Will you find me?"

His tutor smiled, and the red eyes danced. "Come along, my angel," he murmured. "We oughtn't be late."

With a swirl of black velvet, he stood, again offering L the now-familiar soft, cool hand. L accepted it, surprised at the strength with which he was pulled to his feet, having little time to register it before deft hands were brushing, businesslike, at the creases in his clothes.

"Mustn't be late…"

- - - - -

Meanwhile, the opera house was in an uproar.

"Where _is_ he?" Monsieur Ruvie was demanding. "I knew using some up-and-coming chorus boy was a bad idea! One night and he's run out on us!"

"Be patient," Monsieur Wammy was reassuring him. "I'm sure L will turn up. He's probably just gone out with Mello and Near or something; the three of them were talking about celebrating."

"Gone out _all night_?" Monsieur Ruvie cried in exasperation. "I highly doubt it! Besides, Mello and Near are right there!"

The two dancers, upon hearing their names, paused and then approached.

"We haven't seen him," Mello shrugged.

"I'm sure he'll be back in time for the show, though," Near murmured.

"Maybe Vis-Compte Yagami can help us," Monsieur Wammy said, motioning to the young man who had just entered through the front doors.

The Vis-Compte glanced around, apparently searching for someone in particular - a certain truant rising star, perhaps?

"Oh, my _God_!" Mello cried.

The Vis-Compte turned, alarmed, and something in his face said, _"'God' is a bit strong; Vis-Compte will do…_"

"Vis-Compte," Mello wailed, "we're all in states of partial undress! How _scandalous_!"

Near applied his palm to his forehead. Trust Mello to magnify the melodrama when things were already bad enough.

Vis-Compte Yagami looked startled. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding abashed; "I didn't mean to intrude; I was just looking for L…"

There was a pause, which was pregnant and lengthy enough to give birth to several other pauses, which seemed to be nurturing offspring of their own when Monsieur Ruvie's dropped jaw snapped back into place, allowing him to speak.

"_L_?" he demanded. "And _you_? _Mon Dieu_, we _do_ have a scandal on our hands!"

The Vis-Compte blanched. "Wh - No, no, _no_, no, no, that's not—"

Monsieur Ruvie waved a careless hand, something between a wince and a smile plastered across his features. "No, speak no more of it; if you don't tell, neither shall we… Isn't that _right_, everyone?" He fixed the assembled group, Mello in particular, with a meaningful glare.

Mello's smirk, however, looked dangerous.

"Speak of what?" he asked, oozing innocence. "Of the fact that we have all been terribly, horribly, unspeakably worried about our dear friend's disappearance, terrified that he had been abducted by a stalker, or perhaps gone out late at night and fallen victim to a serial killer, or perhaps broken under all the stress and flung himself from the roof of the opera house, and how after all this worry and fear we discovered that he was just off banging the Vis-Compte?"

"What?" The nobleman in question looked aghast. "He - I - there was no banging involved! I mean, I don't even know where he is!"

Mello raised a pointed eyebrow, and even Near allowed a faint knowing smile.

"Recovering, perhaps?" Mello purred. "Oh, the poor dear… Sleeping it off, maybe? Since I doubt there was much _sleeping_ involved when you were around - or at least not as an _intransitive_ verb, anyway…"

The Vis-Compte sputtered incoherently. Near was almost starting to feel a little sorry for him before he thought to consider the rather steep odds, which pointed to Light Yagami's having had his fling and flung his fling-mate. That was probably where L was - curled up in a corner where no one would find him, arms around his knees as always, bent and battered under the force of the shame.

And the Vis-Compte probably wanted to find him to ensure that he'd say nothing of it.

"I'm not - some kind of _Casanova_!" the young man in question was protesting, having finally rediscovered his voice. "My intentions are purely honorable—"

"_Honorable_, eh?" Mello waggled his eyebrows suggestively at his companion, who sighed resignedly. "I'll bet he's _honorable_."

"I mean it!" Light protested. "L is very important to me! Which is why I'm trying to find out where he is and what he's been doing all night!"

Ah, so perhaps that was it. Perhaps L was still sleeping, curled happily in rumpled blankets, and his lover had slipped off to ensure the preservation of his reputation.

"He's probably still in your bed," Mello was pointing out cheerfully. "And as for what he's been doing all night - or rather, who—"

"_I DIDN'T HAVE SEX WITH HIM!_" the Vis-Compte raged.

Mello smirked. "Sure."

The Vis-Compte thrust his elegant fingers into his honeyed hair and clenched them, looking likely to pull out a couple handfuls.

Mello tended to have that effect on people.

"All right," Yagami said, calming himself by what appeared to be force of will alone. "Listen to me. I did find L last night after the show, and I asked him if we could get out of the theater to - talk - a while—"

"_Talk_," Mello repeated, grinning evilly. "With a bit of body language thrown in."

The Vis-Compte's cheeks were a vibrant pink. "Absolutely not. In any case, I went to arrange for my carriage—"

Mello's eyes widened, and he laid a hand over his mouth. "You _didn't_ do it in the _carriage_—!"

"Of _course_ not!" Yagami howled. "We didn't do it _anywhere_! By the time I came back, the door was locked, and he didn't answer when I called to him!" He panted, looking slightly deranged. "There! Are you happy?"

Mello wrinkled his nose. "Not at all; that was an exceedingly boring story."

Yagami raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What kind of story were you hoping for?"

Mello rolled his eyes. "_Obviously_ the scandalous kind where you spirited him off to make wild love to him all night and then left him sleeping, all flushed and tangled up in the sheets, to come here and tell us lies about where he'd been in order to preserve his virginal image."

Light pointed an accusing finger. "Oh, my God, you want him too, don't you?"

Mello snorted. "_No_," he replied. "And what was that, Yagami? 'Too'? So you admit that you—"

"He's back," Monsieur Wammy reported.


	5. Blush–Pink

_Author__s__' Note: Legit excuse for lateness this time - Tierfal__'s laptop screen decided to FAIL. Temporary fixes have been implemented, so expect the next update much more promptly. Thanks for your patience and the awesome support. :)_

* * *

Four heads turned to look at Monsieur Wammy.

"When did you leave?" Monsieur Ruvie asked, bewildered.

"While you were all arguing about whether or not L had slept with the Vis-Compte," the ballet master replied. "I took him to his room, and he's resting in preparation for tonight's performance."

"_Thank_ you," the Vis-Compte whispered, though whether he was addressing Monsieur Wammy or God was slightly debatable.

"Monsieur Vis-Compte," Wammy remarked, "now that you've been exonerated—"

"And declared your everlasting love!" Mello sang.

"Or your momentary lust," Near remarked innocently.

"—perhaps you might be so kind as to permit us to continue practicing without your scrutiny?" Wammy was smiling, which softened the force of what could only be called a rejection.

"Ah," the Vis-Compte managed, "yes. Yes, wonderful. I shall see you all tonight, then. The best of luck to you."

He beat a hasty retreat, but not before Mello called out, "And here's to hoping _you_ get _lucky_!"

The harried nobleman had not been gone a full minute when an angry shriek came from the direction of the main doors.

"No! Absolutely not! Misa will not be upstaged by some silly little choir boy who is not even present on the day of the performance!" Her voice had been growing louder and louder and, momentarily, she appeared and strode angrily over to where Monsieur Ruvie stood nervously.

"This is an outrage!" she told him, sounding dangerously close to hysterics.

"We're terribly sorry," Monsieur Ruvie apologized hastily. "It's just that you disappeared yesterday, and we needed an understudy - but now that you're back, of course you will be performing as the star!"

"_I will not be performing and I bet you still haven't gotten me my pink dress_!" Misa shrieked indignantly, stomping a foot. The cry seemed to release all of her anger, leaving her desolate, and she collapsed forlornly on the nearest prop bench. "No one in this theater appreciates Misa Misa," she sniffed, lip wobbling. "No one understands how _hard_ it is to go out there and offer up my _soul_ to those people, only to get a _white_ dress and then be _replaced_…!"

She trailed off meaningfully, eyes shining with unshed tears, and gave a quiet hiccup.

"Drama queen," Mello muttered.

"Takes one to know one," Near returned innocently.

"Misa Misa, please," Monsieur Ruvie was coaxing. "We had no choice but to use L; you'd already up and left. But now that you're back, everything can go back to how it was!"

"I…" Misa sniffled, seeming to be considering it.

"And tonight, you'll be wearing the pink dress!" Monsieur Ruvie assured her.

Misa's watery eyes lit up.

"Well," she said, "I suppose…"

"But that's not fair!" Mello broke in. "L was supposed to sing; you saw how good he was last night, and he won't march offstage if he's the slightest bit offended! You can't just put him back in the chorus."

"Mello," Monsieur Ruvie told him, fixing him with a sharp stare, "Mademoiselle Amane has been performing with us for many years. Your friend did a very admirable job as her understudy—"

"Better than her," Near mumbled, earning a glare.

"—but surely he does not expect to replace our star just because she missed a single performance. Right this way, Misa…"

Misa hopped up and flounced after Ruvie, looking to be fully recovered.

Mello's face darkened. "That," he announced, "is Grade-A bullsh—"

"Extremely unfair," Near interposed smoothly, glancing at Monsieur Wammy.

"What's L supposed to do, pretend he was never the lead?" Mello griped. "I mean, come _on_. Besides… It kind of gave all of us a little hope too, you know?"

Near sighed. "I do. But we don't run the theater, so there's nothing we can do about it."

"Your frustration is understandable," Monsieur Wammy said, "but I'm afraid we have more to worry about."

Both boys lifted questioning gazes to his face, and he produced a piece of parchment with something written on it in a thin, spidery script.

"This is from the ghost," he explained. "It was sent back with L."

Mello's and Near's mouths went into an impressive pair of O's.

"So that's where he was," Near murmured.

"So Yagami was actually telling the truth!" Mello exclaimed at the same time.

"Yes," Monsieur Wammy replied. "This note says that the Ghost took L from his room last night and brought him back this afternoon so he could perform tonight. But—"

"They're going to have Misa perform," Mello finished. "Doesn't sound like the Ghost is going to be happy with that."

"But if we show them the note," Near pointed out, "they'll probably just say that L wrote it so he could take Misa's part tonight. We have no way of proving that it's really from the Ghost."

"Or that there even _is_ a Ghost," Mello added, wrinkling his nose. "Though if it's been writing things, there must be a Ghost. Unless it's a ghostwriter writing as a ghost, and there actually is no—"

Near and Monsieur Wammy were staring at him.

Mello closed his mouth.

"There's really nothing we can do, is there?" Near asked cautiously.

Monsieur Wammy examined the note once more. "Not that I can think of, I'm afraid. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what happens." He looked up at them, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "And whatever we do, make sure L doesn't wander off alone again. I don't know where he went or what happened, but I don't think we want to risk his ending up there again."

- - - - -

L was nervous. He didn't really have a reason to be - he was just going to be playing a pageboy tonight, a role for which he didn't even have to sing. Then again, that gave him a very good reason to be nervous, because his tutor had said he would be singing and, while L himself was willing to step back into the background, he doubted the creature who'd thrown a tantrum at the mere mention of another friend would be particularly pleased with having his orders directly disobeyed.

And Light was going to see tonight's performance, and that was worrisome both because he would see L and because L's tutor might see him. L saw a thousand ways that things could potentially go wrong, and he simply hoped that, by some miracle, they would all manage to work out.

"Miracle" did not seem to be the word of the night.

"Chaos" would have been an apt choice, however.

Things were even wilder than usual backstage as everyone tried to forget the new, Misa-less choreography they'd crammed earlier in the day and re-remember the proper version. Misa's immense pink dress, with its endless layers of gauze and tulle, certainly wasn't helping, and L suspected it was sprouting the pink silk flowers that tumbled everywhere and got caught underfoot.

Misa herself was a migraine to add to L's heap of headaches - she still resented him for taking her part the night before, failed to respond to the (quite true) point that she hadn't been there to perform it herself, and generally did a lot of sulking and scowling when he was around.

As the curtain rose, L's heart was in his throat, throbbing painfully. It was a good thing he didn't have to sing in this role.

Being glad that it was Misa doing the singing, unfortunately, turned out to have been breathing a sigh of relief too soon. He watched, transfixed and close to panic, as their scene began to fall apart around them. What was wrong with her voice?

And then before he knew it, the two of them were being hastily shuffled offstage, and Monsieur Ruvie was apologizing and promising that a ballet number from a later act would be along in moments. L could already imagine Mello and Near rushing around frantically (well, Mello rushing frantically, Near probably shuffling along at his usual pace) backstage, trying to prepare.

"Wh— wh_-ngh_—" Misa looked startled, then bewildered, and then hurt, and with a suddenness that surprised him, L found himself staring at a slightly spoiled little girl who didn't know how to be anything other than what her talent had pushed her to become.

Cautiously, L put a hand on her shoulder, and she didn't brush it away.

Mello dashed by, half-costumed, releasing a complex string of expletives as he went. Near followed momentarily, fully-dressed and unhurried as usual. Curtains rustled, the orchestra took up the tune, and then, over the strains of it, L detected the rhythmic thumping of expert feet upon the boards of the stage.

"It'll be okay," L managed.

Misa looked up at him with welling eyes. "B— bu—"

He read the message in her face - _But it's the only thing I can do._

Monsieur Wammy sidled up and offered Misa what smelled tantalizingly like honeyed tea. "Try this," he whispered, pushing the saucer into her hands.

Gratefully, Misa took the cup and sipped at it, allowing herself to be led away from the stage and back towards the dressing rooms. L stood there, wondering quietly what Monsieur Ruvie was planning to do when the ballet number was over. Bring Misa back, perhaps? L hoped that her difficulties had been unlucky chance and not any kind of sabotage, but an uneasy foreboding twisted his stomach and warned that it was probably best not to hope for anything. What would happen if she came back out onstage?

He didn't get a chance to find out, though, because that's when the screams started.


	6. Heaven–Yellow

_Authors__' Note: Hey, there! Not to get in your way, but there are a couple things: 1. This chapter is meant to be a little bit surreal and fairy-tale-ish (like the part it__'s based on), __so we recommend enjoying it for what it is. XD 2. __If either of us was Shakespeare, I wouldn__'t be so worried about my midterm tomorrow. :P Alas, poor readers! I knew them, Horatio... 3. Flattered as we are by the investment, we regret to report that suggestions aren__'t really going to change future chapters, since the whole thing__'s already written. ;)_

_Thanks, and have fun! :D_

* * *

Horror snaked hungrily through L's veins, freezing him momentarily, and then he shoved himself into motion, darted over to the back curtain, and moved it aside just enough to peek through the gap.

The first thing he saw was the audience rising to its collective feet, elegant gloved hands rising over mouths, disgust and terror painted gaudily on a thousand aristocratic faces.

The second thing he saw was the dancers scattering like displaced autumn leaves, costumes trailing, their kohl-rimmed eyes wide and disbelieving.

The third thing he saw was the bloated body dangling heedlessly from a noose directly above center-stage.

The pendent corpse turned slowly rightward, then twisted the other way, the thick rope squeezing its broad neck, its dark hair matted, spittle solidifying in the coarse hairs of its mustache, its glassy eyes bulging grotesquely. Scuffed shoes hovered above the stage, toes pointed down as if to mark the spot where Hitoshi Demegawa had died.

L's first instinct was to look for his friends. He spotted them on the other side of the stage, frozen with fear, heedless of the other dancers rushing past them, clinging to each other's hands almost numbly. Near's eyes were wide and disbelieving, and, as the body swung around to face the pair, Mello covered them with a hand and pressed his own shut. Watching the two of them take quiet comfort from each other sent tendrils of loneliness reaching up into L's chest, and he was about to cross the stage and join them when he glanced up and saw a shadow slipping away through the rafters, accompanied - just maybe - by a faint glint of red.

Terror stopped time for a moment, and then L was off, running for the stairs, seeking to put as much distance between himself and the hideous apparition as he possibly could. As he reached the foot of the wooden staircase that led towards the roof, he saw Light running towards him from the other direction, worry in his warm hazel eyes, and almost sobbed with relief.

Almost suddenly, L's bewilderment toying with time, Light was there before him, and L was drawn gently into the wide, endless honey-brown eyes that searched his face.

"Are you all right? What happened? I was looking for you earlier, but they said you were resting—"

With a staggering pang of self-reproach, L remembered his promise the night before (was it only the _night before_?) - and the way he'd carelessly broken it almost immediately after making the pledge. He cringed.

"I'm sorry, I - I was—"

_Consorting with a ghost and a murderer?_

Light shook his head, smiling gently. "It's fine," he replied softly. L thought he saw the muscles in Light's arm shift, as if he was going to raise his hand, but then… nothing - nothing but a flicker of hesitation on the exquisitely shadowed face L was trying so desperately to memorize. "As long as you're all right."

All of a sudden, everything came crashing back.

"No," L gasped. Light frowned in concern.

"You're not all right? What's - L, where are you going?"

"Hurry; this way; we can't stay down here! He'll find us!" L was already halfway up the stairs, and Light began taking them two at a time to keep up with him.

"What's wrong?" he called as they hurried up the stairs. "What happened, L? Who is this 'he' you're talking about? The body—" But L only shook his head and continued moving quickly towards the roof.

When they burst out into the cold winter air, white snow drifting quietly down out of the black sky, L stopped at last, breathing hard, a pink flush rising to stain his pale cheeks. Perhaps they were safe out here - perhaps.

He shivered suddenly, and Light instantly removed his own cloak to wrap around L's shoulders.

"What's wrong, L?" he murmured gently. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

L groaned and buried his face in his hands, huddling in Light's cloak, trying to be smaller as if it would also make him less stupid.

"I've been… The things I did…"

Light's warm fingers brushed his face, sliding his hair gently, almost reverently, behind his ear. "It's all right," he whispered.

Tentatively L peeked up at him through the dark bangs draping insistently in his eyes. Light was smiling.

"It's all right," he repeated softly, sliding a finger under the obscuring curtain of hair, giving L a clearer view of the warm pink in his cheeks, the first pioneering snowflakes swirling through the air about him like so many tiny worshipers, the gold highlights of his hair sparking in the lamplight that seeped out the windows of the opera house. His soft palm settled along L's jaw. "Whatever's wrong, I'll fix it. I'll set it right."

L swallowed, shaking his head, trying not to lose himself in the beautiful promise of those wide doe eyes. "You don't understand," he persisted weakly. "The Phantom—"

"—is a story to scare children," Light finished, smiling gently.

"I've seen him!" L pressed. "Last night - I saw - he lives beneath the opera house; he's _real_; and now he's killed Demegawa—"

Gently, Light laid a finger across L's lips to silence him.

"I won't let anything hurt you," he promised, drawing his hand back to slide a knuckle softly down L's cheek. "I'm here, and I'm not going to leave."

"But if—"

"Ever," Light insisted gently, brushing a lock of inky hair out of L's eyes. "If that's what you want." He smiled softly, fingertips tracing the curve of an ear to bury themselves in thick black hair.

L nodded, not trusting his voice, and felt a thumb run back and forth along his cheekbone.

"Close your eyes," Light murmured. L obeyed automatically, then opened his mouth to ask why.

He was cut off as warm lips covered his own.

Light's kiss was just that - light. Luminescence incarnate. It was warm, and sweet, and desperately fulfilling, like the embrace of…

…an angel…

Even fingernails skimmed L's scalp almost imperceptibly, but before he could shiver with delight (de_light_), the warm arm resting against the small of his back drew him gently closer, their chests meeting, Light's heart beating steadily and softly and just a little fast against his own.

Little snowflakes twirled onto L's cheeks, melting there, pooling wetly, but he felt somehow that he'd never be cold again.

Light's fingertips crept up his spine, the other hand settling against his neck, thumb flirting coyly with his earlobe. Warmth bloomed in L's chest like flame, like fireworks, like flowers that had held out all winter for the sun to reemerge in spring.

Momentarily, they broke apart, and then both of Light's arms were around his waist and he could feel his feet leaving the ground and they were twirling, twirling madly in the snow, foreheads pressed together, laughing softly and reveling in each other's warmth.

"Come home with me," Light implored, once L's feet had touched the ground and they'd stolen a few more shy, exquisite kisses. "Let me protect you; let be with you; let me love you forever." Again their lips met, soft and damp and warm, and L nodded, eyes closed, Light's breath warming his nose and mouth as snowflakes caught in his hair.

Hesitantly L lifted a hand to touch Light's face, to feel the soft warmth and the perfect smoothness under his fingertips, to know for sure—

"Forever," he whispered, smiling slowly. "And longer still."

Light smiled, a warm, genuine, beaming grin like starlight and unexpected gifts. "I love you," he said.

L smiled helplessly back. "I love you, too," he whispered, the words tingling gloriously on his tongue, warming his lips, making the air seem to pulse with the pure and impossible _wonder_ of it all - of Light, of the snow, of the world, of this moment.

Light leaned forward and kissed him again.

When they finally broke apart, the snow was falling more thickly, swirling around their faces and catching in their eyelashes. A warm arm around L's waist pulled him towards the door back inside, and they hurried to the shelter of the doorway, laughing with all the quiet giddiness of new love.

"Wait for me at the front gate," L implored, eyes glowing. "I won't be long."

"I'd wait forever," Light promised, leaning down for a last kiss.

They slipped inside with their fingers laced together, so distracted by their own happiness and by the warmth of each other's hands that they didn't notice the shadow lingering out in the cold.

"Oh, my angel…" The voice like a knife hissing out of a sheath - a rasping, a rattling, knucklebones in gnarled hands. "What have you done?"

Boot heels clacked almost idly on the flagstones until a pair of gloved hands could rest on the low wall at the edge of the roof, until a pair of red eyes could look unseeing out into the nestling imperfect darkness of the night. Ten cold fingers curled around the edge and tightened slowly, as if strangling something fragile and precious.

"My sweet, sweet angel…"


	7. Flame–Gold

_Authors' Note: Sorry about the, ah, massive hiatus, but it__'s midterm season, and the best holiday of the year happens to be coming up, so we__'ve been all over the map._

_Also, please, please, please don__'t ask for musical/operatic/technical details about _Don Juan_. We didn__'t make them up. XD  
_

* * *

A few short days later, Light, dressed handsomely and flawlessly as a royal prince, was helping L out of a carriage to attend the opera house's annual masquerade ball. L stepped out nervously, adjusting his mask (white, edged with silver beads) and looking up at the place which was his home and would be for a few more weeks, until the season ended.

He had no reason to be nervous, he told himself. Since the catastrophe of a few days prior, nobody had seen or heard the faintest whisper of the Ghost, and the voice behind the walls of L's room had disappeared. He only had to finish out the season, and then he would be able to bid the old opera house goodbye and begin a new life with Light. Only a little while longer.

As the carriage horses clopped onward down the street in rhythm with the unnecessary but unshakeable pounding of L's heart, Light's warm hands rose to cup his face again, perfect lips curled into a smile no less wonderful for its newfound familiarity. Light's eyes glimmered through the windows of his mask, black rimmed with gold braid, and they didn't leave L's as the Vis-Compte bent low to kiss the back of L's hand, softly and with a faint suggestion. His gentle fingers traced their way lovingly up the white silk that shrouded L's arm to the opalescent beads at the collar, then whispered over a shoulder blade to touch the feathered wings subtly and ingeniously engineered to protrude delicately from L's back.

"My angel," he murmured, golden-brown hair sliding against the top edge of his mask, and L felt a tremor born half of fear and half of unutterable joy.

Hesitantly, he smiled back, and as Light's warm fingers laced through his, he felt a little bit of confidence returning to him. The fingers of his free hand rose to touch the engagement ring strung on a thin silver chain around his neck and hidden beneath his costume, and a bit more confidence came.

The two made their way up the steps and through the main door, out of which music and golden light were already spilling. When they entered, the first person they saw was Monsieur Wammy, dressed in a long, silvery-blue robe that glimmered faintly, its sleeves draping elegantly away from his hands. A crooked wooden staff surmounted with a blue gemstone completed the ensemble, and, with his white hair and stern, knowing face, the ballet master really looked the part of some kind of ancient wizard.

"Good evening," he welcomed them.

After greeting him and exchanging pleasantries, the two continued into the crowd until they saw Mello and Near waving at them.

The blond boy was dressed to the hilt in fiery yellows and reds, a shining orange mask clutched in one hand, hair spilling airily over his shoulders. Sequins glimmered in curling designs all over his costume, which was capped with a glinting orange-yellow crown with wavy tines. Gold glitter sparked around his bright eyes, and he hailed them excitedly.

Near next to him stood twisting absently at his pale hair. As always, his raiment was more colorless even than his skin - but tonight, that was because he was decked in majestic white and silver, beads peeping out among satiny embellishments in gauze, and his gray eyes stood out startlingly against the sparkling silver shadows painted around them.

"I'm the sun!" Mello was explaining excitedly. "And Near's the moon! Hey, you look great, L!"

"The Vis-Compte seems to agree," Near pointed out helpfully, indicating Light, who was looking at L with an expression that could only be described as adoring.

"Yeah," Mello agreed. "Hey, Vis-Compte, if you take him home and seduce him afterwards, remember to be gentle with him or we'll kick your ass."

"Yes," Near mused, "he is probably not very experienced in such things. In fact, there is a ninety percent chance that he is as virginal as his raiment suggests."

L blushed scarlet. "_Near!_" he cried.

"Ninety-five," Near amended.

There was a small consolation to be taken from the fact that Light's cheeks, too, were a bit redder now than they had been moments ago.

"Much as I appreciate the advice," he remarked, "I hope you won't make a habit of being _too_ interested in our personal affairs."

Mello and Near stared at the Vis-Compte.

"Are you _kidding_?" Mello demanded. "This is the funniest and most scandalous and most interesting thing that's happened around here in _eons_! This is better than when Eleanor and the set dresser eloped to Spain the night of that show!"

"Though that _was_ somewhat epic," Near murmured.

"And extremely difficult for the rest of us," L recalled, wincing heavily.

Mello shook his head fondly, the light sparking off of his tiar - crown. "The last-minute blocking changes… the improvised set pieces… a wild and winsome time was had by all."

Near nodded nostalgically, then glanced over his shoulder at the main ballroom as the orchestra began a different tune.

"Oh," he remarked thoughtfully. "A waltz."

"I think that's our cue to hit the dance floor," Mello grinned, offering his companion a hand. The white-haired boy took it happily and the two disappeared.

"Those two," Monsieur Wammy remarked fondly, shaking his head. "Well, I ought to go make sure that none of the other young ones are making trouble. Please excuse me." He vanished into the crowd, leaving the remaining two of the group alone in a suddenly shy silence.

"Would you like to dance, too?" Light offered, extending his hand hesitantly.

L smiled and took it tentatively.

Light's hand warm and firm but gentle, fingers wrapped around his, the other hand resting softly on his waist like a benediction, they plunged into the mad crush of twirling figures elaborately costumed. Sequins glinted, blinding in the light of the grand chandelier; merry laughter tinkled above the ethereal strains of the orchestra; the light and sound melted and whirled—

The _Light_, of course, was more resplendent than any gilt-edged mask, more enchanting than any costume the ball could produce, lovelier by far even than the swelling of the violins. All of them, all of the wonders, in combination and in harmony, ushered L into an almost bewildering state of disbelief - it was a waking dream, a fantasy made real down to the shining buckles adorning Light's leather boots.

L never wanted to wake up.

And then, with a crash like thunder that sent the lights flickering into darkness, that dream became a nightmare.

All of a sudden, there was a dark figure at the top of the grand staircase - a figure all in black but for the blood-red embellishing its sash, lining its cloak, staining the feather in its hat - and, horrifyingly, glinting through the holes in its death's head mask.

The room fell into horrified silence, the music dying quietly to the terrifying tramp of black boots down the stairs.

"Missed me, have you?" a cold voice hissed.

L's hands went cold; his nerves went numb; his mind went blank. No, not blank - dark. Dark like the oblivion at the bottom of a canal, in the folds of that cloak, in the depths of those eyes—

Light stepped forward, fists clenched, back straight, all class and nobility. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Class and nobility wouldn't protect him here.

L's tutor - the Phantom - Death - tossed a parchment booklet down at the foot of the stairs, his face dispassionate, the red eyes glinting. "The next play performed by the opera," he announced, "will be this one. _Don Juan_. The starring role will be filled by the transcendent L Lawliet."

Light took another step forward. "And what makes you think he'll do it?"

The Phantom smiled. "I don't think he'll do it. I know he will." His ruby gaze moved to L, who found himself holding back a shiver.

"If," the skull-masked man said coldly, "my student has the humility to return to his master, I am sure much improvement could be made in his voice by the time the show begins. Until then, I do hope that your rehearsals will go well." He gave L another icy smile.

"I'll see you soon, my angel," he promised.

And with a puff of smoke and a flash of fire, he was gone.

The dream, sweeter than any he could have conjured, left a bitter sourness in L's mouth.

He stood dumbly for a long moment, every eye on the room on him - critical, confused, probing and predatory. He swallowed, trying to hide the shaking of his hands, trying to raise one to touch the ring resting softly against his collarbones, but his limbs were leaden—

Light returned to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders, staring down the entirety of the room, daring them to speak.

_I tried to tell you,_ L wanted to whisper, but his tongue abruptly seemed to weigh more than his fumbling hands.

He became vaguely aware that Light was leading him away, sending glares back at the curious eyes that followed them. They passed Mello and Near, who looked worried and sympathetic, Monsieur Wammy, who looked concerned, and Monsieur Ruvie, who looked distraught. L couldn't blame him.

And then they were out, out of the ballroom and alone, climbing the stairs towards the room L had stayed in when he'd returned from his first meeting with the monster.

"Don't leave," he implored as Light ushered him gently through the door.

"I won't," Light promised.

Gently, so gently, Light eased them down onto the settee together, his arm still around L's shoulders, avoiding the wings. With his free hand, he peeled off his mask and set it aside, freeing his fingers to push a few wayward hairs off of L's forehead. He smiled.

"Let's think of other things," he murmured.

L managed a nod. He tried to lift a hand to the ring and found that his fingers were curled in the front of Light's doublet.

"Oh," he whispered dumbly. "I'm sorry."

Light set two soft fingers beneath his chin. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he replied. He leaned forward, tilting his head just slightly, and kissed L sweetly for a long moment. When they drew apart, Light pulled L gently into his arms, enveloping him in that glorious embrace.

"It's all because of me," L murmured momentarily. "That he's doing this. It's my fault. I shouldn't ever have listened to him; I should have—"

"Shh…" Light pressed two fingers gently to L's lips. "It's not your fault; it's his. You didn't ask him to stalk you, and you certainly didn't ask him to appear tonight and start making threats. You didn't want any of this."

L nodded mutely and miserably.

"Everything will be all right," Light promised softly. "Just give it time." He lifted a hand to run careful fingers through L's hair, the fingers of the other sliding around his waist to start rubbing soothing circles on his lower back.

Giving in at last - none too reluctantly, all told - L curled up in Light's arms, silk sighing as they tightened around him, and closed his eyes.

"Everything will be all right," Light whispered, a kind smile audible in his voice.

The last thing L remembered before he drifted to sleep warm, safe, and loved was Light gently stroking his hair to the rhythm of the pledge - _"Everything will be all right._"


	8. Snow–White

_Authors' Note: There are viable excuses this time, including midterms and NaNo. We both made it; hurrah! :D_

_Also, we'd just like to state for the record that this fic is completely finished, and really nothing about it is going to change. It was written for RichelleShalark's birthday, remember, in less than three days. (In fact, parts of it were written while I was in class, taking notes in WordPad and typing to Eltea over AIM! XD) We're sorry if the fic isn't exactly what you would have envisioned in a Phantom/DN crossover but, frankly, we didn't write it for you. We just figured that, since we had it, we might as well post it, as some people here might enjoy it, too. :) No, it's not exactly like the book; no, it's not exactly like the movie; yes, the whole point is doing something different and exploring the possibilities! And please, before you start lecturing us on what "should" happen, know that Eltea has read Leroux's novel in both English and the original French, saw the musical on Broadway and owns the film, and wrote an academic research paper on Phantom last year for one of her classes. (I got completely rejected from the college she goes to, just in case you were about to ask what level we're talking about here. XD) If you want to see it precisely the way you want it, well, write it yourself! All we own is the words we chose and the specific matchups we made; it's not like we have a monopoly on the idea of a Phanom/Death Note crossover. Go right ahead!_

_Anyway… We're really glad if you are enjoying it, and thanks very much for the reviews and support! :) Sorry for the awful delay in updating!_

_P.S. If you want to lecture somebody… Book fans, why don't you glance through the reviews and find some movie fans? Movie fans, you can do the opposite! XD_

* * *

When he awoke again, it was to the muddled gray of a cloudy dawn, and the shadows on Light's sleeping face were smudged like charcoal, underscoring his quiet innocence.

L smiled.

He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Light's lips, and then, quietly and carefully, he began to extricate himself from the arms that were wrapped around him. Light stirred a little but didn't wake, and, gratefully, L lifted a cloak off of the pegs by the door, wrapped it around his shoulders, and slipped out - out of the room, out of the opera house, out into the chilly grey of dawn.

He knew exactly where he needed to go.

Cool mist dampened his lungs as he made his way quietly to the stables, and the dark-cloaked figure standing by the horse-drawn cart accepted the coins he was offered, climbing into the driver's seat without a word as his passenger settled in the cart.

"To the cemetery, please," L requested quietly.

A curt nod from the driver, and they were off, hooves clattering on the cobbles, the buildings blurring as they passed. L leaned back against his seat, letting his eyes slide shut. It wasn't far.

When the coach pulled up by a wrought-iron gate L knew all too well, he slid down from his perch, tipped the driver, and slipped inside the fence. Unshed snow thickened the air, the weight of it settling oppressively on his shoulders. He drew the cloak tighter around him and let himself drift down the path, let his feet wander the familiar byways, let the worn stone angels and the towering crosses welcome him with their usual disinterested mercy.

No one ever came at this hour of the morning. L relied upon it.

_- - - - -_

_No_, was Light's first thought. He'd awoken, panic already whispering through his veins, to find L gone from his arms, and a muted clatter of hooves had brought him rushing to the window - just in time to see a carriage carry a single slim figure wrapped in a cloak away from the opera house.

He didn't have to wonder where L was going; something inside him knew. But that same tiny voice was currently crying out that something was wrong - that there was some danger his grey-eyed angel could not see or perhaps was choosing to ignore.

He found a horse somehow, managed to saddle it, and leapt onto its back after what felt like far too long an eternity, and then he was off, the wet, chill morning wind whipping him in the face, one hand looped in the reins, the other clenched around the handle of his sword.

He could only hope that he wouldn't be too late.

- - - - -

They'd never had much money. He'd gathered, from whispered conversations after he'd gone to bed and murmurs in the streets, that his mother's affluent family had disowned her when she'd chosen to marry his father. It was like something out of a storybook, and he'd consoled himself with the sweet impracticality of it when his coats wore thin and he hunched in them against the snow. When he saw a beautiful boy on the beach whom he knew he couldn't afford to impress with clothes, leaving him only his cleverness.

He'd always wondered if his mother's family had regretted abandoning their only daughter, and when she died, he found out that, in their proud way, they had. As if to make some wretched amends, they constructed a monument, a vault, that dwarfed everything else in the graveyard. Proof that they hadn't relented soon enough.

L stood where he always stood, at the bottom of the steps, gazing up at the surname carved into the stone. That was the part that baffled him - they'd carved his father's name. The "family" that hadn't once spoken to him, that had ignored him throughout the service, that hadn't given him a penny towards the rest of his life, had carved his father's name.

Gently at first, the snow began to fall.

The breeze murmured around his body and through his hair, and he thought he could hear it whispering - _L, child, angel._

And then, slowly, he became aware that there was a voice whispering, echoing through the winter morning air and rising, as it seemed, from his parents' tomb.

"_My child, my angel… my little lost one…_"

L looked up, half-fearfully, half-hopefully, and saw the tomb lit from within, as with some kind of divine illumination.

"_All alone…"_ the voice murmured. _"Alone in a winter graveyard, my poor little one…_"

"Who's there?" L called uncertainly. "F-Father…?" He hesitated, suspicion stirring. "Or are you the Phantom?"

"Have you forgotten your angel?" the voice asked softly.

"I…" He had. He had forgotten; abandoned; cast away; pretended never to have known…

"I forgive you, little one," the voice assured him softly. "I'll always forgive you."

L climbed the first step, and the second.

"Who…"

The glow from within the tomb pulsed softly, gently, warmly.

L climbed another step; the fourth; the fifth.

"Come to your angel, my love."

"Angel," L breathed. The steps disappeared beneath his feet, powdery snow spurting about his heels, the icy wind caressing his face.

"Yes…" the voice whispered as he drew closer.

"No!"

The sudden sharp cry broke both the silence and the spell, and L turned, bewildered as one woken from a dream, to see Light running towards him, sword drawn.

"I don't know what it's told you," he said, "but L, this _thing_ is not an angel!"

L opened his mouth to reply, and then gasped instead as a shadowy figure leapt from the top of the tomb, sword gleaming in its hand, and moved straight for Light.

Steel smashed deafeningly as two swords - two lives - two worlds - collided. The dark figure's eyes were obscured by a black veil, the midnight cloak swirling, the sickly light of morning sparking off of the polished blade. Light wore white, his hair in disarray, his eyes blazing, but somehow it wasn't that simple…

The swords slammed together again and again as if magnetic, as if drawing them apart was the temporary action, crossing them permanence. Breath misted furiously in the heavy air, snow flying around feet that moved forward, backward, sideways, scuffing and feinting, advancing, retreating, stumbling—

"Stop!" L cried, darting between them, narrowly dodging the blades. "Stop, there's nothing—"

He couldn't tell whose arm it was that knocked him aside, though he knew that thence it was a short journey to the foot of the monument that bruised his head and scattered his thoughts like crumbs for birds.

He lay for a long moment, dazed and unmoving, hearing the muffled curses and the panting breaths overshadowed by the slamming where metal met.

When his eyes finally managed to focus, it was to see two blurry forms locked in a battle far too swift and violent to be discernible to his clouded brain. A white arm swung a sword, and he thought he saw a flash of red somewhere…

And then, suddenly, the dark figure was on the ground, and the white one was towering over it with a sword drawn, ready to deal a final blow and destroy the monster - but also the mystery and the magic and the _music_.

"No," L called weakly. "Please."

He saw Light pause, hesitate, and then sheathe his sword. Almost before he had time for relief, there were arms helping him up, one of them crimson with blood, and he was being lifted onto the back of a horse.

And then, another swift moment later, they were gone, leaving his fallen angel lying in the snow, defeated but alive.

He clung to Light's back, clenching bloodstained linen unconcernedly in his fingers, holding tightly to the last bastion of sanity and hope that he could find. He didn't dare to speak, because if Light spoke - if Light was angry - there would be nothing left.

He pressed his cheek to Light's shirt, closed his eyes, and held his tongue.

Just after they'd reached the streets of the town, the first of the sun's rays probing through the misty haze, Light slowed their mount and turned. L tried to avoid his eyes, but gentle fingers turned his face upward.

"Are you all right?" Light asked softly, a warm hand against L's cheek as he sifted through L's hair, brushed L's neck…

"I - of course," L stammered, "I - you're the one bleeding all over everything."

Light smiled, a bit more thinly than was his wont. "I'll try to be more careful where I drip in the future," he remarked.

L felt his throat tighten.

"I'm sorry," he murmured miserably.

Light's thumb skimmed over his cheekbone.

"No," Light whispered, voice as soft as his smile. "Never that. You've done nothing wrong."

"I shouldn't have left," L explained, shamed. "Certainly without telling you."

Light smoothed L's hair, his own fluttering as he shook his head. "If you should have to ask my permission every time you wanted to step outside," he noted, "I don't think we'd be looking towards a very happy life together."

L smiled weakly. "I suppose. It just seems as though going out alone is more dangerous than usual right now. I should have been on my guard, but I let him control me… again," he finished somewhat bitterly.

Light's lips touched his forehead. "It isn't your fault," he repeated.

L's smile was faint. "Thank you." The situation still looked bleak, but with Light on his side, with that kind of faith and that kind of love behind him, he might just be able to stand it.

Light kissed him once more, softly but lingeringly, and ran a knuckle down his cheek. "Always," he promised before facing frontward again and kneeing the horse into motion.

Always.


	9. Pitch–Black

"What do you mean, perform his play?"

"It's the only way to catch him," Light explained patiently. "He'll be sure to come, especially if L sings."

Monsieur Ruvie raised an eyebrow. "You're going to use your lover as bait for the trap? Don't you think that's a bit dangerous?"

"Onstage is the safest place for L," Light replied grimly. "I'll have to be waiting near Box Five, where the Phantom is likely to appear, but if we leave L alone somewhere, chances are that he'll vanish. Onstage, hundreds of people will be watching him; the Phantom won't be able to pull anything."

Ruvie looked skeptical, but he sighed and shrugged. "If you think it will work, Vis-Compte," he conceded, "it's certainly better than having him destroy whatever other play we tried to do."

Light grinned. "Exactly," he confirmed.

And so rehearsals began. It wasn't an easy show to do - the music was unusual and experimental for all its genius, and some of the sets and effects were complicated - but the opera house launched into it determinedly, and, by the time opening night came, the cast was well-rehearsed, the musicians were prepared, and thirty policemen were stationed in and around the building while Light himself waited in Box Five.

L tried to perform as if nothing was amiss, as if it was a regular audience attending a regular show, but his best efforts and his firmest logic couldn't deny the uncertainty that rode, portentous and electric, on the very air.

He glanced up at Box Five for confirmation more than he would have liked to admit. Every time he did, Light was waiting - with a smile belied by the way his knuckles were white where he'd wrapped his fingers around the rail.

As he waited offstage to watch the last act begin, L felt his fingers straying up to his neck. Tonight, there was a tiny vial hanging on the chain beside the ring.

Reassuring as Light had been and good as his plan was, L couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong. That the Phantom was going to come for him again, take him back down to the tomb below the opera house, and this time, keep him there forever.

L didn't think he could stand that. To lose all human contact, to lose the light of day, to lose _his_ Light - no. If the Phantom took him again, if all hope seemed lost, he was prepared.

If all else failed, the vial around his neck would leave him with the power to die.

- - - - -

The play itself was unsettling, but everything went well enough until they began to approach the climax - for that was when the candle flames guttered and the shadows swelled.

L stepped onto the stage per his cue, trying - and failing - not to let his eyes flick to Box Five. There was Light, of course, as he'd been all along: calm, quiet, and steady. L drew a deep breath and moved into position, kneeling on the floorboards, primed for defeat, for despair, for dissolution.

His scene partner emerged, strutting into place, setting shining leather boots shoulder-width apart, his dominance unparalleled. L looked up plaintively—

—and the blood froze in his veins.

The figure towering over him was not the one he recognized - or rather, not the one he wanted to recognize, because he did. Even swathed in a black cloak, even with a veil of inky gauze covering the eyes, eyes he knew were fixed on him - even then, it was all too terrifyingly clear. And then the figure began to sing, and his cold fear solidified into horrified certainty even as the music sent his heart racing.

He swallowed the worst of his misgivings, gathered himself to his feet, and sang his part in return. There was no going back now.

Gloved hands reached out to him; the faceless creature cupped his in firm fingers, tilting him this way and that, assessing with those invisible eyes. L sang back for all he was worth, struggling against the tremors that threatened to wrack him so completely that the audience would see it all.

_Only a little longer_, his mind assured him desperately. The song was nearing its end; by now, the two had ascended to the scaffolding that rose above the stage.

_Only a little longer_, he repeated desolately as the monster's arms went around him, pulling his back against its chest, cold hands sliding across his stomach to settle on his waist as cold lips brushed his neck.

His breath was coming in quick, hitching little gasps, and as much as he hated it for the melodrama, it was twice as wretched for his having to sing through it. He couldn't get enough of the sulfurous, fake-smoke-ridden air into his lungs, and his head spun; even as he squeezed his eyes shut to clear it, the hands clamped on his shoulders and turned him slowly. When he opened his eyes again, he was facing his fallen angel.

The sightless face drew close to his, angled. Leather-sheathed, vise-grip fingers twisted, unknown to the audience, in his hair, trapping him there, holding him still. Preventing escape.

Just before the mouth met his, L snatched the veil and dashed it over the railing, not bothering to watch it flutter to the stage below.

Red. For a moment, it was all he could see - the deep, rich, bloody crimson of those impossible eyes. And then they clouded over with fury as screams of horror erupted from the audience.

Without releasing him, the figure drew its sword, and for a heart-stopping moment L thought it was going to kill him right there. But instead it slashed at one of the ropes attached to the catwalk, then hit a lever - and all of a sudden they were falling, falling, falling, plummeting downward through the stage, and all L could feel through the numbing fear in his veins was the wind whipping past them and the monster's merciless arms.

Everything in him tensed for the impact, but when, after an eternity, it came, the fall wasn't kind enough to kill him.

- - - - -

Light wanted to vault over the railing, and only some residual vestige of common sense overcame the urge and saved his life.

It wasn't enough to stop him from careening down the stairs, hand on his sword hilt, murder on his mind - headed downward, further downward, not knowing where his destination lay.

"Follow me." Looking up, he became vaguely aware that Monsieur Wammy had joined him and was leading him through the roiling crowd - because something was wrong; he could hear crackling flames and pounding feet and panicked screams - and down, down, down, deeper into the opera house.

"This is as far as I dare go," Wammy said heavily when they reached the top of a dark, damp stairwell. "Be careful, Light."

"We're coming too!" Mello's voice insisted, and Light turned to see that the blond boy had followed them, Near at his heels.

"Absolutely not," Monsieur Wammy snapped. "Go, Light. Be careful."

Light didn't waste the moment it would have taken to nod.

The stairs doubled, trebled, blurred beneath his feet as he streaked wildly down them, his elbows grazing the tight stone walls, the scabbard of his sword smacking sharply against the steps when he bent too low. His heart pounded discordantly in his ears, and the thought circling like a vengeful vulture in his mind was a solitary one - _Don't let him be dead_.

- - - - -

The descent into the chilly hell beneath the theater was even worse the second time, the wonder and incredulity that had once cushioned it replaced by hopeless desolation and sick fear. L's captor hurried him down the dank corridors, cold fingers digging cruelly into his wrist, dragging him to his feet when he stumbled and all the while saying not a word. It wasn't until they reached the cavern that was his home that the creature spoke - flinging L's arm aside, fingers rising instead to catch his neck, to trace his jaw, to press on his throat.

"Why?" the voice hissed.

"I'm sorry," L said, unable to think of anything else.

A sudden sharp pain in his cheek, and then the Phantom's hands were back around his neck, cupping it between them almost tenderly.

"You're a liar," the creature hissed. Fingers rose to twist into his hair, and cold lips filled the vacated spot on his neck, bruising the skin with a harsh kiss. L gave a soft cry as much of surprise as pain, and the breath of a whispered laugh cooled the damp skin around the contusion.

"My liar," a voice murmured. "Mine." And then the fingers were curling painfully tighter into his hair and the mouth was eagerly at his throat and his back was cold against a stone wall - and a new kind of fear was prickling its uneasy way along his limbs.

"Don't," he ordered helplessly.

"Don't _what_?" the creature inquired, pausing in its ministrations to lay hooded red eyes upon him, breathing in his terror, soaking up his disbelief - reveling in his shame. "Don't claim what's mine?" L opened his mouth to protest feebly. "Oh, but my lying little angel, " the creature interrupted, a cruel, crooked grin alighting on its features, "you _are_. I made you. I made your voice - I gave it to you. I gave you the reason people admire you, the reason that pathetic twit you moon over follows you around like a hungry dog - I gave that to you. I gave you a song, and a life, and a chance to change everything, and the moment you saw the light of that world, you forgot me. You _denied_ me." A smile again, bitter; a cold hand with fingers curled in his hair, tilting his face upwards; red eyes reading the tenseness of every desperate muscle. "But what I give," the creature murmured, "so too can I take away. You belong to me, my angel. You gave yourself to me, and I am redeeming that promise."

Promises. Promises everywhere - a web of promises crisscrossed by the shimmering, tenuous threads of the lies, all of them cold and sticky and twining around his wrists and ankles—

The creature's fingers did the same, shackling him in an unbreakable grip, drawing him forward, dragging him towards the soft expanses of the circular bed, another heaven transmuted into a velvet-lined hell—

L fought him this time - fought him as hard as he could muster the strength to writhe, to kick, to tug against or twist in the grasp that held him - but he gained nothing but a few thin smiles and a few sharp cuffs to the ears. He staggered, missed the bed, and crumpled to the lush carpet that muted the floor.

"Please," he gasped out, still struggling, still seeking to pull free of the relentless strength bruising his wrist, the fingers delving again into his hair and coiling there, trapping him again. "Please - I thought - you're my angel - _please_ - some kindness—"

"My sweet child," the creature sighed, face arranged in a perfect affectation of pity. It leaned forward and took its teeth to his neck, ignoring his protests even as they rose to a wordless, breathless, hopeless cry. "How naïve you were."

Arms insensible to his thrashing encircled him, heaving him onto the bed, pushing a cushion into his face to muffle his cries. Slowly, gently, almost lovingly the Phantom ran two hands down L's front, cooing softly, stroking the intricate embroidery, whispering at his victim to hush, to quiet, to submit. Cold fingers undid the first of the buttons at the collar, and then the second, and the third.

L, eyes wide and desperate, struggles smaller and more pathetic as he ran out of strength to fight, met red eyes through a haze of shivering disbelief. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ believe - for he could - but that he didn't want to. That he'd never even wanted to _imagine_—

The creature paused as a shout broke through the heaving, labored duet of their breathing.

"_Where are you, monster?"_


	10. Blood–Red

_A/N: Well, this is the last of it! XD Thanks very much to everybody who read, reviewed, and enjoyed! :)_

_Please don__'t complain if the ending isn__'t what you wanted - we didn__'t decide based on what we "wanted," __either, and certainly not on based on how we wanted Phantom of the Opera to end. We decided based on what we thought would realistically happen with _these_ Death Note characters in _this_ situation. Are we clear? XD  
_

_Begs the frightening question what we__'ll write Richelle for Christmas... O_o  
_

* * *

The smile that slithered onto the lips of the monster was a truly terrifying one.

"Ah," he breathed. "It would appear that we have a visitor. We ought to show him in, don't you think?"

_No_, L's mind was insisting frantically. _No, go away, go back, get to safety, save yourself—_

But the red-eyed fiend was already moving towards the other room, and he scrambled after, hoping desperately that there was something, anything he could do to stop whatever was about to happen.

The plush carpet snared his feet, sending him tumbling to that strange mixture of sand and beads and fine rug once again. Scrambling to his feet, he heard splashing, a shout, and then a cry that petered off into frail silence.

His heart seized, and the maliciousness of the carpet couldn't hold him this time.

But he was too late.

A noose curled possessively around Light's pale neck, the thick rope woven in and around him and the iron bars of the portcullis holding him fast. He was soaked to the skin, shirt draping limply over his tensed body, his wrists bound on either side of him, his eyes wide but unrepentant. In amongst the anger and the agony, L detected a potent hint of fear.

The creature stood back, drenched as well, holding in one delicate hand the other end of the rope. A red-eyed gaze passed over L, a cold smile lit dreadful lips, and that brilliantly musical hand yanked hard on the rope.

Light managed another strangled cry.

"Don't!" L implored. "Please!" He knew that a show of fear and affection for Light most likely wasn't the best way to win his captor's sympathy, but he was desperate for something, anything that would help, anything that would loosen the rope around that defenseless neck.

"Please what?" the monster asked, red eyes glinting in a smirk.

"Let him go," L begged. "He's never done you any harm."

Thin lips curled into a sardonic smile.

"On the contrary, my innocent one." Another tug on the rope; another strangled gasp from Light. "He has done me a great deal of harm."

"_I_ have," L countered desperately, moving forward, his hands out as if he was begging for something tangible - and attainable. "_I'm_ the one who's hurt you; I'm the one who pledged my allegiance to you only to forsake you as soon as—"

The creature sighed dismissively and pulled harder. Something like a sob escaped Light's throat.

Dark water sloshing around his legs, slowing him, as if he was running in a dream, L finally reached the creature, grabbed its arm, sought its fingers, trying desperately to pry them off of the rope—

"Please, you can't; he's innocent in this; take _me_—"

A sharp hand cracked across his cheek, shoving him aside, and he slipped, falling heedlessly into the water, scrabbling to find the dark surface where it was broken by the flickering orange of the endless candles. He broke it, gasping, his hair trailing into his eyes, and looked hopelessly up at his tormentor.

"Take me instead," he whispered.

Slowly, L's tutor turned merciless crimson eyes on him.

"If I take you," the creature promised, "it will be forever, L Lawliet. Think about it. His life… or yours. Which will you choose? To let him die, or to save him by pledging yourself to me for the rest of your life?"

"Don't do it!" Light gasped abruptly. "I'm not worth that; don't agree to it!"

L was silent. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the scarlet ones that were watching him steadily.

"Your life must have been terrible," he murmured. He took a step closer, then another, then another. "But you're not alone." He stepped closer again, drawing in a deep breath. "And you never will be."

Gently, he pressed his lips to his tutor's.

Saturated fabric scraped against its own kind, cold fingertips laid their damp ovals on his cheeks, and the released rope slapped wetly against the rippled mirror of the lake.

The mouth against his ate at him hungrily, the creature devouring him pulsing with a dark desperation and a wild, pent desire suddenly released. It seemed to savor his submission, wet fingers squirming into his wet hair, tangling themselves, trapping him, the other hand closing tightly around his arm. There was no escape now. Ever.

After a cold, dank eternity, the creature drew back, red eyes sparking, the candles' flames reflected in them - their yellow lights blurring, halo-like, around L's face where it, too, swam in the mirror of the endless eyes.

L brought a hand to his chest, his heart thumping urgently against his curled fingers through the wet fabric of his shirt. He could hear the lapping of the water around his legs, his own soft panting, and, distantly, Light's shallow and horrified breaths.

And then the monster lifted both hands to his neck, fingers curling around his jaw, slipping through his damp hair, holding his head in place, and he felt their mouths being crushed together again.

But this time, he was ready.

In curled fingers he cradled a ring, a broken chain, and the contents of the vial that had slipped with a delicate _plink_ into the water eddying around his knees. He balanced the thorn between two fingers of his right hand, and then he raised that hand, flattened it against his tutor's, his angel's, his monster's neck and plunged the point of the thorn into the largest vein.

A startled breath passed through lips joined with his, viselike hands released him momentarily, and the creature before him took a step back, surprise giving way to confusion as tears began to run down L's face, confusion giving way to dawning realization as cold numbness began to wind its way swiftly through veins and along nerves.

"Poison," whispered the most beautiful voice L had ever heard.

"Poison," L whispered back, unable to distinguish the rivulets of water coursing from his hair from the tears drizzling from the corners of his eyes.

One last harmony - one last song. The ragged breathing matching his, then slowing; the soft scrape of wet fabric against the stone wall; the clatter of a candelabra as a weakening arm collided with its base; the hiss of its candles extinguished suddenly by the irrevocable power of the water they met, wax splattering like blood.

A soft splash as boots lost traction; even softer counterparts as limbs churned. A faint burbling as the velvet cloak caught air, floated momentarily, and then sank slowly into the wet.

The song died, leaving nothing but the unsteady breathing of two young men.

The Phantom was dead.

Unseeing, L stumbled through the shallow water to the portcullis. His fingers were half-numb with cold and his eyes were blurred with tears, so it took him a few moments to untie the knots binding Light's hands. When his fingers brushed skin, when they touched, those hands felt warm, and he concentrated on that, on the warmth, and blocked out all the other thoughts.

The music was gone.

Finally, the damp rope yielded, and Light staggered free with a gasp, pulling the noose from around his neck.

L stood dumbly to the side, shivering, his mind darting furtively back to cold fingers and a wet kiss, two wet kisses, a thousand miseries and triumphs encapsulated in a moment that threatened to tear him to shreds.

If it succeeded, he would bleed a far-too-familiar color.

Then Light pitched the rope away and threw both arms tightly around L and, ignoring his trembling, ignoring his misgivings, ignoring the taint of monstrosity still clinging to his lips, kissed him, gently but soundly, with a softness and an uncertainty legitimized by the overwhelming love that ran below them.

- - - - -

"Thank _God!_" When the two emerged into the wreckage of the theater, Mello was as pale as his companion, and for once, he wasn't smirking. Near, too, looked relieved - it appeared that Monsieur Wammy had been forcibly preventing the two from rushing down into the theater's depths to help.

"What happened?" Mello demanded - but Light put a finger to his lips and shook his head.

For a moment, there was silence as the reality of the situation sank softly in, and then the blond boy spoke again - quietly this time.

"What now?" he asked.

"Now?" Monsieur Wammy remarked, setting a hand gently on the shoulder of L's that Light wasn't already claiming. "Now we go on. Now we rebuild, and we put on plays, and we show people the most wonderful operas of their lives. It's what we do, and it's what we are."

L nodded faintly, not quite sure whether the heaviness in his chest was misery or hope. Could they really rebuild? Could they really go on? Could they—

"Of course," Mello was saying, "to bring people in, we'll have to make sure everyone knows that one of the star and the sponsor are sleeping together. There's nothing like scandal for publicity."

"But we're not sleeping together," Light pointed out, cheeks slightly pink and eyes narrowed faintly in a frown.

"Not yet you're not," Mello affirmed cheerfully. "But you will be."

Light angled an eyebrow. "Are you going to be monitoring our habits closely in the future?" he inquired archly.

Mello winked. "Can't say I'd mind, if you've got a closet available, though joining in would probably be more fun."

Light looked slightly ill. "I beg to differ."

Mello winked again, at L this time. "Make 'im _beg_ to _differ_," he suggested, punctuating the point with a gentle elbow to the ribs.

L smiled weakly.

"Come on," Mello encouraged. "Cheer up. You look as though you've seen a ghost. Ow, Near, what was that f— I mean… shit. Oops. Sorry, L…"

L couldn't help it. He started to laugh quietly, and, hesitantly, the others joined in, each voice different and distinguishable. A new kind of melody. Perhaps the music wasn't gone after all; perhaps it had just changed.

"Mello, I'd like you to meet my friend Tact," somebody was saying. "I know you two are strangers, but you could at least greet him. Say hello, Tact…"

_Hello, new beginning_, L thought.

"Hello?" someone else was asking him. "L?"

What a wonderful word, L thought. What a wonderful way to begin something new. He looked up and smiled.

"Hello."


End file.
